L'impression de main
by The-Mephistopheles-of-Mirth
Summary: He heard her shriek as it coiled around her wrist, and despite his earlier plan, obeyed the voice in his head screaming at him to help, diving at the offender. As his hands gained purchase upon the man's suit jacket, he felt a tug behind his navel, and as the three disappeared in a swirl of blue, Harry Potter was assaulted by a sense of impending doom. RATED M for later content.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I do not, have not and never will, own the rights to, or profit from Harry Potter...which is probably why it went downhill.**

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Some stories begin on corpse strewn battlefields, beneath a blood soaked sky, with mortal enemies facing each other one last time. Other stories begin in an enchanted kingdom, surrounded by emerald forests, home to a noble prince who will learn of his destiny. Others begin on a small street in the south of England, with a newly orphaned hero places upon the doorstep of his relatives, who would not know of his greatness for many years.

This story however, does not begin in any of these places. This story begins, on as street in the centre of Paris, on a pleasant summer day, as a young, starving and lonely boy, aged 7, sees a chance for survival. And like any human being would, he takes it, unknowingly taking the first steps to discovering a secret world of both wonder and horror, a world that, young Harry James Potter, aged 7, knew absolutely nothing about. Which, in his retrospective view, was quite amusing, considering the hidden world of magic knew more of his past than he did. But now, the story must soon begin, and poor Harry must enter the world that took everything from him, leaving him with only twisted dreams of Dark Lords, death and green flashes. He must enter the world that will take even more from him, yet will reimburse him in the kindest way possible.

Therefore, our story begins as Harry Potter watches a well dressed, beautiful and happy family enjoying a walk through their capital city. And yet, both Harry, and the Delacour family, (for that was the name of this perfect family) were blissfully unaware that in a few short moments, their lives would be twisted together in tale of love, pain and war.

As a result of this, this story begins here, not quite at the beginning, but with the fateful meeting of two pairs of eyes. One pair, a deep and piercing emerald, weathered with the destruction of a child's innocence. The other pair, a brilliant and pure sapphire, promising joy to all those who would gaze upon them. Considering the romantic implications of this meeting of eyes, it is therefore surprising that Harry Potter's next action would be to move towards the aforementioned family in the hopes of stealing money upon which to live. How quaint.

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15th of August, Paris, 1987

The joyous sun caught in his glasses, blinding him and forcing him to squint hard to focus upon his target. It wasn't that he was a bad person, quite the opposite, which was the reason he had chosen this particular family. While he would still feel the same guilty, he knew that the money he stole should not be greatly missed by the obviously wealthy family. So, his conscience temporarily appeased, he moved forward, into the crowd, towards the important looking man surrounded by his silver haired family.

As he slipped between the masses, towards the man, he quashed the ever-present self loathing, reminding himself it was for his own survival...and surely, a family as well dressed as his approaching targets could afford to miss a handful of change. He again moved closer, checking his direction in the crowd, locking onto the beacons of perfect silver hair that parted the sea of Parisians and tourists. The boy could almost feel the success the would surely be his in a few short moments, completely unprepared for the fact that he was not the only one targeting the family just a few metres ahead.

As he readied himself, inches from victory, he saw it, the hand reaching out to grasp the eldest daughter. He heard her shriek as it coiled around her wrist, and despite his earlier plan, obeyed the voice in his head screaming at him to help, diving at the offender. As his hands gained purchase upon the man's suit jacket, he felt a tug behind his navel, and as the three disappeared in a swirl of blue, Harry Potter was assaulted by a sense of impending doom.

**XXXXX**

**I hope you enjoyed it, as you can see, the story shall most likely be clichéd. I shall attempt to update as soon as I can, but beyond the first few chapters, I have little plan for how the plot shall unfold.**


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I hold no ownership, nor gain any profits, from Harry Potter. If I did, it certainly would have been a very different story from Goblet of Fire onwards...**

**XXXXX**

_As he readied himself, inches from victory, he saw it, the hand reaching out to grasp the eldest daughter. He heard her shriek as it coiled around her wrist, and despite his earlier plan, obeyed the voice in his head screaming at him to help, diving at the offender. As his hands gained purchase upon the man's suit jacket, he felt a tug behind his navel, and as the three disappeared in a swirl of blue, Harry Potter was assaulted by a sense of impending doom._

**XXXXX**

15th August, 1987

Fleur Delacour, was enjoying her day out. The sun was shining, her family was by her side, and every single thing was going perfectly. Even her father, Jean, who was usually occupied with his duties as head of the French DMLE, had managed to requisition a day off and was here to participate in the festivities on this most special of days. The first birthday of her younger sister, Gabrielle. She glanced at the newest addition to the family, nestled protectively in her mother's arms. The bundle's silver hair clearly displaying the Veela heritage of the family, along with the bright sapphire eyes, currently hidden behind the fluttering eyelids of an afternoon slumber. The perfect little girl, who would grow to be a perfect woman.

The family were currently en route to the apparation point, returning from a day of delights for the more mature Delacour females, Apolline and Fleur. From the shopping, to the lunch and the weather it was indeed a perfect day, nothing had gone wrong. One of those few perfect days that most people delight in at least once in their lives, and Fleur knew it. It was with this invincible attitude that she looked forward to the remainder of the day, relishing every second, and gliding forward with the anticipation and excitement that can only by found in a child. It was days like this would reside in her memory forever, the type of memories that would power a Patronus. Fate, however, had decided that this day would be remembered for another reason.

As Fleur eyes met the eyes of the approaching scruffy looking boy, she felt pity for the boy, for he must clearly live on the streets. It was times like this her youthful idealism flared, angered at the injustice of the world. That she should walk the streets in designer dresses, while this starved and pathetic little boy must live in little more than rags. Her first impression was that of pity, she could almost feel the guilt, desperation and self-hatred rolling off of him. From his dusty, worn and torn shoes to his cracked oversized glasses and dirt-smeared face, she felt her positive attitude attacked head on by the unfair nature of life. But before she could point this out to her mother, the boy lurched forward, a hand entangled itself around her slender wrist, her kidnapper was tackled by a dirty streak, a pull in the pit of her stomach, and everything went blue.

**XXXXX**

Her eyes closed out of instinct from the portkey, she kept them closed from the sheer terror she felt at the situation. She felt herself being thrown into a corner, with a landing weight on top of her mere seconds later, after a yelp of pain and a curse from a deep, masculine voice. She heard cruel words directed towards her in her native tongue, threatening an unspeakable fate for her and her family if she did not comply with the demands of her captors. She could smell and taste the sweat in the air, the anticipation, and worst of all, the arousal. Fleur prayed for her father to come with his aurors, to come and fix everything, make it all better, as if nothing had happened. She counted to 3, but all that had happened was that the curses and profanities were directed towards whoever was with her, in the corner. She wondered as to who else they would have abducted, and only hated herself a little for hoping that it wasn't someone she knew

Every aspect of her being screamed out at her to move, to get away, but she was frozen in place. Through her closed eyelids, flashes taunted her, begging her to open her eyes. As the thing on top of her lurched once again, she mustered all her courage, and removed the barriers from her sapphire orbs.

It was the boy, the one from the street, leaning against her, and trying to shield her with his skeletal frame. Another flash impacted with the boy, his body rocked, he hissed in pain, but did not yield. His glasses were shattered, his face was cut, his clothes were bloody and torn, yet he still tried his best to protect her. It became clear to her that while she was disoriented from the travel, and trying to rationalise the situation, this boy, whom she had dismissed in the street, had thrown away his safety in order to protect her. Like the stories she had thrived upon growing up, he was her knight in shining armour, her prince charming, rescuing her from the jaws of evil. But he wasn't rich, he was small, younger than her, and his face currently was too broken and bloody to tell if he was handsome. On top of all that, he was hurt.

That had never happened in the fairy tales, in the stories, only the bad people and the monsters were hurt or killed.. It was all wrong, and she knew it. It was then that she realised there was a large chance they might both die, or that at the very least, the boy would die, while the abductors would ruin her in the manner expressed in their earlier vile threats. She simply could not comprehend why he had thrown himself in harm's way, for her. She knew for a fact that if the situation had been reversed, she would have simply have stood and stared. But it was not for ladies such as her to save people, it was for knights, princes and men like her father. None of it made any sense. How could the stories have been so wrong? And now, as she felt something stir deep inside, she knew she must save him. How dare they hurt her noble saviour! She swore, then and there, if, no, when, she got away from this, she would drag him with her, and never again judge others by their appearance.

She felt the rage rise within her as he buckled once more, letting out a scream of pain as a scarlet curse ripped through his body. Her arms instinctively wrapped around his chest, pulling him closer to her and trying to draw the pain into herself as her saviour howled and convulsed in pure agony. She could feel his agony, her heritage allowed her that. She could feel his entire mind, ready to vacate all sanity to escape the torment. But she could also feel his need to protect her, as if it was the fundamental aspect of his being, as if it was his one purpose in life. The boy knew he had to protect her, and refused to let go, refused to step aside as his nerves all exploded at once.

It was too much, and Fleur felt him sag and pass out from the torture, the mocking voices began speaking of 'putting him down' and she exploded with fury. The fire started in her hands, which were still clinging to his chest, and spread across her entire body as well as the room, incinerating all but her and the guardian in her arms. She felt the feathers emerge, the beak form and the talons grow, and she took pleasure in the fact that these men, no, beasts, who dared attack her saviour, were now screaming in pain, the tables turned as their flesh and bone gave way to the blue passionate flames. As she felt the exhaustion enveloping her, she smiled, knowing they were safe. Their bodies pulled together amongst the dancing inferno surrounding them, lost in the world of dreams as the kidnappers writhed and slowly became nothing but ash in the breeze now flowing through the burning building.

**XXXXX**

When the aurors arrived, they were amazed at the destruction. The entire manor, levelled, leaving behind only ash and two children, embracing each other in unconsciousness. Innocence among the wreckage, with a warm breeze already dispersing the cinders across the French countryside. The aurors gazed upon the scorched ground and the pair unconscious in the midst of it all, their objective, the daughter of their boss, protectively coiled around a beaten and bruised street child. The silence was broken by a single word, spoken by the youngest auror, fresh out of training, that managed to sum up the sheer scale of the annihilation.

"Merde..."

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**Once again, I hope you enjoyed it, thanks for reading and reviewing, please don't hesitate to share your opinions! Harry will be darker than canon, more independent and less trusting, but at the same time, not too bad. For example, he's only stealing from those who can afford it and made the decision to help Fleur. This event marks a change for Fleur, it is here that she realises that perhaps she can be strong as well, rather than simply becoming a damsel in distress. (I hate it when she's just a cliché girl, I mean, she joined the tournament, and was chosen to best represent her school for goodness sake, what does that tell you about her?) This chapter would have been out faster, but human error on my part delayed it. I have no idea when the next chapter will be ready, but at it will come. Hopefully with a shorter author's note, and will contain more backstory, Harry's version and motivation, as well as the compulsory recovery scene.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters or concepts encompassed by the franchise.**

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Harry awoke in unusual situation. For the first time in his memory, he was lying in a proper bed. Rather than a structurally unstable cot in a dark cupboard underneath the stairs, or a dry spot in an alley, he found himself in a large bed, with clean white sheets, in a well lit and tidy spacious room. From the sunlight pouring through the windows, unrestrained by the thin silken curtains flickering in the summer breeze, to the tastefully extravagant décor, he was understandably confused. For a child who had never knowingly been given a dash of kindness, who had never received any luxury, he was baffled by his situation. Resolving himself to the fact that it must be another cruel dream, raising his hopes, he allowed himself to return to a gentle slumber, ignoring the handprint burned into his chest. He didn't dare think that this would be how he would wake for the foreseeable future, comfortably, that is.

xxxxx

Looking back on that fateful day, Harry was, in some way, overjoyed at how the attempted kidnapping played out. He was eternally grateful to the Delacours for taking him in, after the questioning, legal battle and ICW session to assert their right to custody. He was also thankful, as one who had relied on his wits and cunning for so long, for the knowledge he gained from the Delacours, about magic, politics, and pretty much everything else he asked about. But the thing that he thanked the Delacours for most sincerly for, was allowing him to watch over Fleur.

To him, she was the centre of the universe, the single most important thing that could possibly exist, ever. If he was religious, she would have been his goddess. From the moment that, in his opinion, she saved his life, he was utterly devoted to her. There was very little he wouldn't do for her, as a way to repay the first kindness he had ever been shown by anyone, a kindness he felt unworthy of.

If she could convince him that jumping from the Eiffel Tower would ensure her eternal safety and happiness, he would joyously do so. If there was anything (but for a few things) he could do to improve her mood, it may as well be considered done. He was brother, bodyguard and butler, all rolled into one (to the best of his ability). Harry became so devoted that it made Bellatrix Lestrange, in comparison, look positively hostile to Voldemort. He was a willing test dummy for her attempts at hexes, charms, potions, dresses or make-up. He considered it his sole purpose in life to protect her, keep her happy and be whatever she wanted him to be. The latter of which being the root of the current argument and one sided fight between the two. Which is also why he was standing still allowing her to launch ball after ball of passionfire at him, following her command of 'stand still'. Therefore, at this moment in time, Harry James Potter was, quite understandingly in complete and utter agony. Or to put it crudely, he was in pain.

His current dilemma came from his final of his three aims in life. Being whatever she wanted him to be. It also came from the fact the Fleur was a Veela, a being of passion, a predator whose every action was enacted with a great deal of the aforementioned passion. If Veela decide to do something, it often gets done, simply because if a Veela believes she is right, she will restlessly pursue her goal until appeased. (Hence the overwhelming majority of families with Veela that are matriarchal in hierarchy.) While Veela are generally stubborn, to say the least, it is when their decision or viewpoint aligns with the more...passionate emotions that they become completely beyond any reason that another could impart. So, when a Veela feels emotions such as rage, jealousy, joy or love, they are rarely concealed, and even more rarely denied. Which is exactly why Harry was now pretty much on fire, as he often ended up being when this particular argument arose. And as per usual, by the morrow, the burns would have healed and Fleur would tearfully apologise for hurting him, and relent for a while, but still believe she was completely right...

Yet, before we deal with this situation, we must return to where we were...seven years earlier.

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He was scared, and it was real. The dream, of the flashing lights, the pain and the girl were real, unlike before, he had proof these weren't dreams, despite being just as fantastical as gigantic men on flying motorcycles. It was almost as frightening as the day, about three months ago, where he woke up in an alley Paris, with no idea how he got there. But this was scaring him for a different reason, he could deal with pain and unfortunate events, but what he couldn't manage was the girl sitting on the end of his bed, chattering away in French at the speed of sound. The girl who had saved him, the girl who had made the fire that burnt all the men with the flashing sticks, the girl who now owned his life, as far as he was concerned. After all, she had _saved_ him, the ultimate act of kindness, and the only act of kindness he had ever been shown. How could he ever hope to repay this debt? Did he want to? It was then and there he decided to reshape his life and priorities, and created his three aims.

His fear rose to a higher degree when the man from the street, his target, walked in, his face rapidly cycling from anger, to kindness, before finally resting in a confused sort of mixture of the two as he approached Harry. And if the aforementioned hero's panic significantly increased.

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Fleur sat at the end of the bed, observing him, as she had been doing for a few hours now, since before he awoke. Now she was thinking more clearly, after the calming potions of the past few days, she realised who exactly her saviour was. Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived. The scar was there, with the green eyes and the messy Potter hair that had been in all the magical papers since he went missing three and a half months ago. As to be expected, this situation was mind-boggling to Fleur.

On one hand, she had been saved by the hero of the century, the ultimate hero, knight in shining armour and prince charming, on the other hand, he didn't look too impressive. He was small, even for his age, he strongly resembled a skeleton, in both body mass and complexion, and as for his clothes, her Maman had burnt them with passionfire as soon as they were off of him. He didn't look like a hero, who lived in a castle and responded to worldwide catastrophes, or the youngest Lord in the British Wizengamot's history. He instead looked like a poor street urchin, who had no money, food or clothes. His twisted glasses, lying on the bedside table, missing a lens, the other lens so cracked it was a wonder he bothered using them at all. He simply looked broken as he lay there, the sheets pulled up to his chest, covered in scars of varying severity, emaciated, with a panicked expression on his face, not to dissimilar to a startled deer petrified in the headlights of a heavy goods lorry. And the handprint burned into his chest, _her_ handprint, her left hand, just above his heart, from where she had held onto him for dear life, the skin was already an unearthly silver, the colour of a star or some other celestial body. She hadn't realised how hot the passionfire had been, and apologised once again in a stream of French, before going on to talk about whatever crossed her mind, in an attempt to circumnavigate her embarrassment.

Her tangential chattering ground to a halt, and Harry's startled expression became even more exaggerated, as her Papa entered the room and closed the door behind him.

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The Harry remembered it, Jean had started out calmly, thanking the boy for saving his daughter, and shielding her from pain. Then he asked why the boy had stolen his wallet, and Fleur decided she should express her point of view upon the matter, in broken English, substituting the words she didn't know with French. Pointing out that while he may be a thief, he was a hero, and by the state of him, obviously had no choice upon the matter, but to survive. When that failed to convince her father, her new-found abilities with her passionfire, and the support of her mother, did, after all, no man is foolish enough to argue with two transformed Veela. And so, Harry found himself with a place to live, and a family, courtesy of the girl he was rapidly becoming more and more indebted to. He knew then, that his three new aims in life were completely justified.

A year later, in time for his eighth birthday, Harry Potter was legally in the custody of the Delacours, after an international trial that did very little to bolster the reputation of either Albus Dumbledore, the Dursleys, or the British Ministry of Magic. Although, the fact that very soon after the multiple times Harry was moved from the Delacours at the bidding of Dumbledore, he would somehow find his way back, without fail, every single time, through wards, and across the English Channel, and would be back by Fleur's side within hours. Not that Fleur or Appoline complained, his utter subservience endearing him to Fleur, and his protective concern over her daughter winning over both Appoline and her Veela nature, leaving Jean with very little choice but to accept the young boy who would quickly become like a son to him.

The crux of the matter was, it was nigh on impossible to separate the two of them. Harry would not leave Fleur's side for prolonged periods, for fear of anything happening that may harm her, while Fleur, as both a Veela and a female, was quite content with the attention and loyalty he showed her. She knew he would do anything he could for her, and tried her best not to abuse his subservience...most of the time.

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The carriage buckled, and with it, the grip on The-Boy-Who-Lived's arm tightened dramatically, as if afraid he would use the landing to escape from her grip and forever disappear. A few moments later, and a couple of warming charms, he was dragged from the carriage, her vice like grip continuous in the long October shadow of Hogwarts. The autumn breeze tore through the rest of the contingent, drawing shivers and rustling the pale blue shawls that covered the heads of the Beauxbatons females. The only sound was the fluttering of fabric in the wind, with the eyes of the assembled crowd drawn to one place. For one of the rare times in her life, even Fleur was overlooked, as the entire body of Hogwarts students and staff stared unabashed at the grimacing face of Harry, even as his eyes scoured the crowd for any threat to Fleur.

From the crowd, a tall and thin old man dressed in blinding robes staked forward, with a grandfatherly expression affixed behind his beard and a predatory gleam in his eye. A single sentence rattled from his ancient lips..."Welcome to Hogwarts."

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**A/N: To all those who waited and left reviews, thank-you...sorry for the long delay, this chapter wasn't worth it. This must be the 14th draft, written from scratch. It wasn't that I had writer's block, just that what I was writing was utter crap. Anyway, the next chapter will be longer and more than a way to give an illusion of time passing.**


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